And flowers bloom
by LadyBird
Summary: A room. A bowlful of water. A pack of razor blades. And Harry...


Disclaimer: All the characters used in this story are the sole property of J.K Rowling (and some other big company whose name I do not remember. Sorry, no insults intended, just my bad memory). They are not mine. I take credit for the characters' actions and thoughts in this story, though (often used as they are).

**Warning: **Planning/ thinking about suicide. It's not a death fic, though.

**Rating: **R (just to be on the safe side)

**A/N: **I think this fic goes into the "don't try it yourself at home" category. I am not an expert in different methods of suicide, so I don't guarantee any of the facts given in this fic about that particular method are true. The mentioned article exists, though. I read it and wondered if it was meant as a manual.

And flowers bloom 

Blue. He'd always wondered why the veins looked blue through skin when blood was supposed to be red. He pressed the razor blade stronger against his wrist and traced the big vein up his arm. In some places it cut trough the skin and a little blood welled up. Red. But still...

He was sure Hermione would know. She always seemed to know that kind of little tidbits of information nobody else would even think about. At least not in the Wizarding world. Sometimes Harry wished he'd paid more attention in primary school – they'd been taught every kind of things there, certainly somewhere among those was the answer to his question. Not that he really needed the answer. 

He prodded the small cuts with his finger. It almost didn't hurt. Maybe such small wounds weren't supposed to hurt? He couldn't actually remember last time he'd had a _small_ injury, so he couldn't actually tell. 

_Hermione would know, maybe I should really write her. _Only that he wouldn't. He hadn't been writing too much and now felt a vague feeling of guilt because of it. _They're worried about you, why did you have to make them worry more?_

Ron and Hermione and Remus and Mrs Weasley and... Weasleys were an old wizarding family. At least he thought he'd heard somebody saying that they were. He recalled reading somewhere that in old times Muggle aristocrats had claimed they had blue blood not ordinary red like lower class people. The book had explained it was because the aristocrats tended to have pale and thin skin so the blood vessels had showed through clearly. And blood vessels looked blue through skin, he knew that himself. But the blood was still red.

Another shallow cut from wrist to elbow, mapping the intended way. 

There had been an article in a last week's newspaper. Some girl had broken up with her boyfriend and cut her wrists. She had been found and saved which was good, because she hadn't really wanted to die anyway. She'd just wanted her ex to feel sad. Harry thought it pretty stupid – the guy had broken up with her, how much would he care about what she did?

The journalist had gone on and on how young people shouldn't do things like that, there were always other options and people they could talk to in order to get over their problems and... And then the journalist explained how it was clear the girl hadn't really wanted to die, because she had done it all wrong: she'd slit her wrists horizontally and near the palms not along the blood vessels from up to down, and she'd put her hands into cold water which had slowed the blood flow down when the warm water would have quickened it. He'd read through the article and paid attention to facts. He was not going to repeat her mistakes. 

He took the razor blade into the other hand and appraised the lightly tanned skin. About this way... and the blade made its run. It wasn't painful, not really.

Stealing the razor blades had taken some planning. He'd needed several in case one broke, and the loss of a pack of razor blades was likely to be noticed, even with Dudley now shaving as well. So in a carefully staged show of clumsiness he had spilled an entire pack of brand new razor blades on floor while opening it. He'd gotten yelled on quite a lot, but he hadn't actually heard it. Things seemed dulled, lately. 

Compared to that, getting a bowl full of hot water to his room had been relatively easy. He'd just told aunt Petunia he'd spilled some ink on the floor in his room. 

So now he had an almost full pack of razor blades – he'd used one to shave – and a bowl with hot water. Too hot actually, he hadn't estimated the temperature right. He guessed sitting and waiting until it cools to a more comfortable level was a bit stupid considering his further plans, but... 

He touched the surface of the water carefully. No, still too hot. He'd briefly thought about creeping out of his room to bring some cold water, but decided it wasn't worth the risk. This bowlful will cool off eventually.

He made the final cut. Now his hands were the mirror images of each other – four parallel cuts, two on each hand, running from his wrists up to his elbows. Identical. Actually not. The scar stood out pale on his arm. Voldemort. 

Harry looked at the bowl. The water was still steaming. Perhaps he should just start already... 

He'd opened the window in hope to catch some errant breeze. It didn't seem likely, though. If anything, the summer was even hotter than the last one. Everything was parched, everything was wilting. Harry had heard aunt Petunia complaining every single day for the past week that her special flowers – a flowerbed down below Harry's window that she'd planted and weeded herself – would never start to bloom if they didn't get enough water. It was peculiar to see aunt Petunia show such concern over anything but Dudley.

It was hot here. Far too hot. And the water wasn't helping any; it made the room only hotter.

Hot, everything was hot, hot, hot! It felt like there was a boiling cauldron in him and then suddenly it burst.

"Why can't there be wind, why can't the weather be cooler, why can't that damned water be cooler, why can't I write to Hermione and ask all the things I want to ask!"

A quiet hoot drew his attention. Hedwig had landed on the window still. What was she doing here? He'd sent her to Ron and told her not to come back. And she wasn't carrying any letters...

She looked at Harry and let out another hoot. Something in her eyes made Harry thinking he could hear her speaking... _"Why don't you send a letter?" _she was saying._ " I am here, why don't you write?"_

He looked at her and suddenly wanted... everything. To write to Hermione and ask her stupid questions about why blood vessels looked blue, to ask Ron if the Weasleys were really an old family and to tease him over it, to sit with Remus and hear stories about his father and mother and Sirius, and in the end he would maybe even cry a little if he didn't feel too embarrassed in front of Remus... 

Where had he put the parchment and the quills when he was packing his things? In the trunk? And – he looked at his arms – he should have something to clean the cuts in there too. 

But first there were some other things to take care of. He sent the razor blades into the dust-bin in the corner of the room noting his sharp aim with satisfaction. Then he headed to the table.

He took the bowl and poured its contents out of the window. When he looked down he saw that most the water had fallen on aunt Petunia's flowerbed. 

_Well, maybe they'll bloom now._

**PS A/N: **I have no idea where this came from. I just suddenly had this picture of Harry pouring the water on the flowerbed from his window because he has decided not to slit his wrists (so he doesn't need that water anymore) and saying "Maybe they'll bloom now". I couldn't get it out of my mind so I wrote this story.


End file.
